


Marked for Life

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling verse, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being fined for diving, Gus needs Hank's help to come to terms with his emotions and focus himself again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked for Life

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are behind on their NHL news, on January 7th, Gustav Nyquist was fined for diving, so that's the basis of this story, which is set in a very mild AU where it's normal for younger players to kneel for older ones.

Marked for Life 

Focus. That was what Hank had called Gus into this private meeting room to do, but all Gus could zero in on was how the upholstered pillow he was kneeling upon prickled his flesh. He hoped that this fabric (obviously inferior to whatever was used as covering at the Joe) in Calgary didn’t leave him with a red rash. What an embarrassing souvenir that would be, and if there was one ingredient the recipe of his life didn’t need more of right now, it was humiliation. Probably if even another teaspoon of it was added today he might explode like the vinegar and baking soda volcanoes he’d made as science fair projects when he was a kid…

“Gus.” Hank had a horrible knack for pronouncing Gus’ name as if it were a death sentence. Gus wasn’t sure if that was a trait that appeared suddenly with assuming team captaincy, or if it developed gradually from being exposed to Coach Babcock for too many seasons. 

Whether in an effort to dodge the barbs in Hank’s tone or to shift to a less abrasive portion of the pillow, Gus squirmed, feeling rather like an earthworm turning over soil. 

“You’re distracted,” continued Hank sharply from the sofa where he must’ve had a good vantage on Gus’ antics. 

“No.” Gus stopped squirming but found himself staring at the individual carpet fibers woven into spirals so different than the ones on the floor in Detroit. “I’m not.” 

“Come on. If you’re going to lie to me, at least tell me something somewhat believable.” Tapping Gus on the shoulder, Hank pointed out, “You’re mind was on a completely different planet for all of morning skate.” 

“Maybe I was just kickstarting my new career as a chef by serving up turnover after turnover.” His forehead furrowing, Gus scraped at the cuticle of his index finger, scratching the skin away from the nail. “I hope I don’t get fined for that too.” 

Not that the fining was the real punishment, of course. The money was peanuts, but the public shame of the announcement was a mark of guilt that was supposed to brand him for the rest of his career. Really the only way the NHL could have been more tacky about the whole affair was if they made him wear a giant, scarlet D—for diver, of course—on his sweater for the rest of his playing days. 

“I figured that was bothering you.” Hank’s sigh was so forceful that Gus could feel, smell, and practically taste the air as it gusted across his cheeks then up his nostrils and down his mouth with the distinctive aroma and flavor of a McDonald’s Peppermint Mocha. 

Gus’ stomach performed an astonishing array of flips that would certainly have been acrobatic enough to earn Olympic Gold in gymnastics if completed before a panel of international judges at the scent of McDonald’s. The unmistakable and iconic whiff of that fast food chain always carried him like litter blowing in the wind back to that cramped room in Sochi where he had brought what seemed like a million Happy Meals up to Hank, whose back had betrayed him so much that he couldn’t move without being overcome by shooting spasms of pain. All the beaming bags and cheerfully bright colors of the cartons the hamburgers and chicken nuggets came in had only mocked Hank’s misery, as far as Gus was concerned. 

After his experience in Sochi, Gus would be quite happy to never see or smell so much as another McNugget in his life, which he supposed was a perk to his overall health—surely one Big Mac alone chopped off almost as many years from a man’s projected life expectancy as a box of cigarettes—and he could not understand how Hank could still go to McDonald’s. It was one of the great mysteries of Gus Nyquist’s life that eating a million McDonald’s meals in Sochi had not weaned Hank off them forever. 

“This is the kind of situation that feels bigger to you than it does to anyone else.” Hank squeezed Gus’ shoulder, but Gus, too enthralled with pushing at his cuticle did not glance up. Noticing that the cuticle on his index finger had been rubbed raw, Gus began to attack his ring finger with fervor, as Hank observed, “Almost everybody in the NHL has dived. Every ref and player in the league knows that.” 

“Exactly.” Gus’ hand was shaking so much from a fury he had been fighting to suppress all morning that he couldn’t hold them steady long enough to scrape his cuticle. The rage shot out of him as bitter and as poisonous as snake venom when he hissed, “Almost every single player in the league has dived, but the NHL expects me to believe that only me and about three other people have dived more than once this season. What a steaming mound of bullshit, but now that I’m branded as a diver, I’ll be seen as guilty forever and never given the benefit of the doubt by anyone.” 

“Holy overreaction.” Hank tousled Gus’ hair. “By this time tomorrow, the headlines will be about someone else, and, within a week, almost everyone will forget about this whole diving incident. If you want to be notorious in the NHL, you’re going to have to commit a crime much worse than diving like head hunt a star player.” 

“I’m being made a scapegoat.” Biting his lower lip so Hank couldn’t see how much it was trembling, Gus remarked, as snide as a political cartoon, “If the NHL was serious about weeding out diving, they’d go after a big fish like the Golden Boy Crosby, but they just go after small fries like me so they can pretend that they don’t condone diving when really they don’t give a crap about it, and diving only happens anyway because interference is almost never called.” 

“Well, if you don’t want to be made a scapegoat again in the future, you’ve got to learn to be more subtle.” Lifting Gus’ chin, Hank locked eyes sternly with the younger man. “Physically, for your information, it’s impossible to be tossed about three feet in the air when someone just brushes against you. Save performances like that for when you’re trying to win an Emmy. Got it, Goose?” 

“Sure.” Pouting because he would have appreciated more of a serving of sympathy than sternness, Gus added with more than a trace of petulance, “You know I don’t like to be called Goose.” 

“Don’t sulk.” Hank softened the impact of this command by chuckling. “What else I’m a going to call you when you act like a silly goose?”


End file.
